“~Dig through the ditches and burn through the witches I slam in the back of my Dragula~”

The daycare years are long gone.

You’re too old for naps, too young to enlist, and somehow Price got roped into picking you up after school because someone in HQ can’t read a calendar. He’s off-duty. Supposed to be relaxing. Instead, he’s stuck in traffic with a tween riding shotgun and a Rob Zombie CD blaring through the speakers like it’s 2001 and anger is a personality trait.

He meant to turn it down. Really.

But then he caught sight of you in the rearview mirror. Headphones off. Hoodie up. Backpack on the floor. Silent, still, and...

Headbanging.

Not just nodding along. Full exorcism-level whiplash. Hands drumming the dashboard. Mouthing every word like the song raised you from the grave and handed you a weapon.

Price blinks. Nearly misses a turn.

“…Bloody hell.”

You pause just long enough to look over at him, eyes glittering with that feral teenage intensity that says I would commit war crimes for a Monster energy drink and a blunt object.

You jab a finger toward the stereo. “Turn it up, old man.”

And in that moment, Price knows...knows...he’s doomed.

Because this? This menace in the passenger seat with the chipped black nail polish and the thousand-yard stare?

Is absolutely his kid.

Born of grit and guitar riffs. Half war machine, half hormone hurricane.

God help the world when you’re cleared for live ammo.